


The Color of Death

by Esin_of_Sardis



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, F/M, fancy art things happened, i dunno, like if prose were poetry, not sure how, s3e11 curative fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esin_of_Sardis/pseuds/Esin_of_Sardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sacrificing himself to kill Pan, Rumpelstiltskin is caught in swirling mists. It's not what he expected of death. Meanwhile, Belle is searching for a miracle to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by myvalerianellakell

Black isn’t the color of death. That’s unexpected.

Unlike most dead people, Rumpelstiltskin knows where he is. He’s not in some sorry state of denial. He doesn’t think it’s a dream. He knows he’s dead. He better be. It’s the only way that Belle and Bae will live.

Still, it’s isn’t black.

Everything is a dark, deep grey. The sort that shifts and moves in the corner of his eye so he can never quite be sure what might be in the mist surrounding him. He seems lost in mist grayer than naturally possible. There is no up or down. Nothing solid. Only swirling mists. It’s disconcerting, but he can bear it. This is his punishment.

His own personal hell.

Because Rumpelstiltskin knows he’s a villain. Belle would deny it. She would point out the good he’s done, the people he’s helped. He supposes that over the years he has done some good. Once in a while. But a few good moments don’t redeem the bad. True Love could have saved him. Perhaps. It’s too late for that now anyway.

This is hell, there’s no place for love.

Belle will weep for him. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear her sobs and screams. The sound of her heart breaking over and over with every second. Closing his eyes is good. It’s black then. Black and still. The swirling mists can’t hide anything then. But when his eyes are closed he can hear her. Piercing. Raw. The way if he could he would ensure that she never had to sound.

His heart is breaking too.

Time doesn’t have much meaning. He can walk or stand still, sit or lie down. It doesn’t matter. The mists never change. After a while, their movement is mesmerizing. If only for the moment before he realizes how truly pathetic he has become if a slight change from dark grey to dark grey is enough to hold his attention.

It almost looks like dirty magic.

Not dark magic. No. Actually, the darker a spell it, the richer its color. This is sluggish, murky. Like a spell gone wrong. One that would clog his pores, seeping, noxiously oozing into everything. Yet it’s distant. He can’t touch it. Attempting to do so amuses him for a time, but eventually that bores him too.

Being dead is, well, deader than he expected.

Eventually his surroundings cease to interest him. He’s trapped inside his own mind, with hundreds of years of memories clearer than they ever had been in life. Every pain he caused. Every regret. The bad moments so much worse than before now that they’re all there in front of him. And the not even the good, perfect moments—the few that there are—bring him comfort. There’s only pain in remembering.

Belle is alone now.

Her True Love is lost to her. Yes, she has Bae and he’s certain there are others who will fill her life. She’s the sort of person who is kind to everyone. She won’t want for friends. Yet he can still hear the whispers of her hidden tears as she grieves for him.

Rumpelstiltskin, come back to me.

The sound of her voice is only stronger when he closes his eyes, though he tries not to. There’s no sleep. Not in death. The living think death is eternal sleep. Apparently they’re wrong. Her voice floats through the mists, over and under. He cannot hide from the desperation, the longing in it. It tortures him more than any fire or ice could. Villains don’t get happy endings. He knows that.

But can’t there be an exception for the sake of his True Love?

Her sweet voice is all he hears. Sometimes he forgets and starts off into the mist, trying to find her, only to get nowhere. There’s nowhere to go. Nothing ever changes. It’s an endless cycle. The only comfort is that he took his father with him. Belle and Bae might not be happy, but they’re not cursed. He closes his eyes, focusing his memory on their faces. It would not do to forget them. Every look, every word, every loving touch.

He can almost feel Belle’s hand in his.

With a start he opens his eyes. There she is. Standing in front of him. He gasps her name. She smiles, touching his face. “Come with me,” she says. “I’m here to save you.” He protests. It’s not possible. He’s dead. He died to save—”And you did. That’s what saved you. You’re not dead, just lost.

“I can show you the way out.”

He nods, taking her hand, a small rational part of him saying that he shouldn’t believe her. That this is just another trick. But she seems to know where to go—does she see only the mist? It seems to be thinning as they go. It’s farther and farther away, lighter and lighter. The ground beneath is more and more solid.

They stop at a door.

It’s a tall wooden one. Heavy. Belle takes a golden key from around her neck. He’s about to object—there’s no knob or keyhole—but it seems to fit and turn well enough into the door itself without either of those things. Belle pushes lightly against the door and it swings gently open. Griping his hand tight, she leads him through.

He’s assaulted by life.

The air has a sweet, thick taste, a myriad of scents nearly sending him reeling with the first breath he takes. The light is bright and he squints, unable to truly tell where he is. The sounds overwhelm him. Birds singing, the door closing, breath and wind and all the little noises he never even knew existed until he was dead in a dead world with no sound at all but Belle’s faint cries.

Then Belle pulls his head down for a kiss.

She… she’s real and like fire all over him. Good fire. Because fire is life and not death. He can’t think or breathe from the pure onslaught of sensation, only let her lips slide insistently over his with passion and longing and relief. It’s like he’s her water, her air, her source of life. Because she’d his. “I thought you were dead,” she whispers between desperate kisses.

It’s funny, he thought so too.

When she lets him up he can’t tell whether he’s suddenly able or unable to breathe. She seems so necessary for him. His eyes have adjusted to the light. He’s alive. He’s home. He can recognize the Dark Castle now, though it doesn’t seem so dark anymore. There are tears in Belle’s eyes as her hand caresses his cheek. “I’m alive,” he says. “And I won’t ever, ever leave you.”

Who knows? Death might be black after all.


End file.
